


Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time

by miabicicletta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Art History with Sherlock Holmes, Comparative studies on the nature of love, F/M, Mary/Sherlock brotp, Sherlock is such a nerd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She gazed at him, considering what possible motivations lay behind the statuesque facade. “What is this case about?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time

**Author's Note:**

> Art history with Sherlock Holmes. Here we go. Nods to Euripides, Wagner, Neruda, Shakespeare, Bronzino, and the greatest artist of them all. Title comes from one of my favorite paintings, Bronzino’s brilliant, eerie, fascinating, creepy af _[Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time.](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bd/Angelo_Bronzino_001.jpg)_
> 
> For **[Amalia Kensington (amaliak)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/pseuds/Amalia%20Kensington)** , best beta/human being ever, and genius behind the accompanying artwork. <3 <3 <3

She shoved her way through the cobblestone obstacle course of Trafalgar Square, dodging throngs of camera-laden tourists, snaggy umbrellas upraised against the threatening sky, the ambivalent disdain of cliquey British schoolchildren. She glanced at her watch as she made her way to the steps of the National Gallery. Bit late, but, well, _whatever._

As she entered, she spotted him in the first gallery, hanging about the crowds with all the manner of a bored monarch. 

“You rang?” Mary Watson said, unceremoniously announcing herself.

“Need your input.” 

“Why?” 

“My _celebrity_ —” he said with profound distaste, “—may allow me certain liberties, but I doubt even my starpower would be capable of blinding the curates of the National Gallery to the point of letting me borrow a priceless artwork.” 

"They said no then?" 

"Unfortunately." 

“And we couldn’t do this in front of a screen?” Mary groused, imagining her rainy commute home.

Sherlock Holmes’ mouth curved in sly retort. “Some things _are_ worth leaving the flat for, Mary." With that, he strode off deeper into the museum, clearly expecting her to follow.

She rolled her eyes. _Right, you posh git_. “So," she said, when she caught up. "We’re here. To see... a painting.” 

Sherlock looked down his long, pale nose. “Yes, excellent start, Mary. Brilliant deduction.” 

She glared. “Oh shut it. If this is going to be like one of those times where you ask John for input and then mock him for missing something that only _you_ see clearly—” 

He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Sadly, no time for fun today.” He glanced over, amused. “Besides, I’ve already spoken to him.” 

“You talked to John. My husband, John Watson. About...well, art?” She gawped. If _people_ were not really Sherlock’s area— _tsch!_ —painting was _definitely_ not John's. 

Sherlock shook his hand. “Weeeell, no. Required a slightly different analysis of him. Opera.” 

“Opera?!” Mary scoffed. “He’s not seen an opera in his life. When in hell–” 

“Untrue. Last week. _Orfeo und Euridice_. Wagner so, you know...” He gestured offhand, though what he meant by that, Mary had no sodding idea. 

“Yeah, I don’t actually, _so_ ,” Mary mimicked, dropping her voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the imitation, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. He really was rubbish at hiding how much he enjoyed someone who could _throw some shade_ right back at him. Still, there was something odd about his behavior lately. “You had something the other day; was that related? UCL. Week-ish back. You wouldn’t come to dinner,” Mary said, suspicious.

“Reading.” 

“You were reading?” 

“ _A_ reading.” Sherlock corrected. 

"A reading." 

" _Yes._ " 

“A reading. Of literature? You, who won’t bother with Dickens or Austen, much less Martin Amis or Hilary Mantel. _You_. Went to a book reading?” Mary half-laughed in disbelief. 

“Required some interpretation,” Sherlock not-explained.

“From who?” 

A beat. “Greg Lestrade.”

“Oh. Didn't know you knew a 'Greg.'” 

Sherlock gave her a glare-y, self-evident sort of look that she took to mean something to the effect of _Obviously I know his name—I’m not an idiot—so let’s just move on, shall we?_

Mary smirked. “And how was it?” 

Sherlock shrugged.“Illustrative. Particularly for Lestrade. Met an Argentinian kinesiologist in the audience. I imagine the Neruda poems Dr. Llarosa translated should pave the way a toward a sexually satisfying, if brief, relationship…”

 _Poetry?_ She clicked her tongue. _Interesting_. “Wasn’t there some—When you dragged John off two nights ago? You know, when you couldn’t stop for more than two minutes to say ‘Hi’ to your goddaughter–”

“Who wouldn’t know a ‘Hello’ from a death threat, by the way–”

“ _My_ daughter would. But yes. Then.” 

“Theater.” 

“What?” 

“Drama. _Medea_. Modern spin; National Youth’s putting it on. Anderson came, too.” 

She gazed at him, considering what possible motivations lay behind the statuesque facade. “What’s this case about?” 

“Just doing the legwork. Background.” He looked around, narrowing his eyes. “It should be this gallery…”

Thoughts whirled. A thin, trace possibility rose from the small flame of hope that Mary Watson had been tending for some time now. No more than a wisp, insubstantial and uncertain, and yet…

“Fine.” Mary shrugged, casual. “I’ll just ask Molly.”

Sherlock turned on his heel. “No!” 

_Ah!_

He swallowed, affecting calm.“I mean, Molly has already been helpful, to a degree, in her own way. Contact unnecessary.”

Mary bit back a grin. _Oh, I think contact might definitely be necessary. More yours than mine, lovey dove._

Sherlock strode across the gallery floor, gesturing. “So: The reason we’re here.” 

“Right,” she said, humoring him. She moved to his side. They stood back from the wall, shoulder to shoulder, like soldiers falling in line. “What are we looking at?” 

Sherlock gestured to the painting. As with the others throughout the gallery, the canvas was encased with a very large, intricate frame, taller than it was wide, and by the look of the style and colors and subject, the piece was fairly old. Well, older. Coupla centuries, give or take. God, this was not her area. Frankly, most of what Mary knew about art could fit in a handful of Tweets (if that) but she could recognize the proper, medieval-ish looking style—no Impressionism nor Cubism nor Some Other-ism here. The figures, their faces, the style, all of it was far too classical in appearance to be modern or contemporary (whatever the difference between those was). Center-stage was a pair of awkwardly arranged lovers—a young boy and a woman. They were surrounded by various figures, who hung about the edges of the painting: turning, twisting, watching.

The effect was uncomfortable, and left her vaguely unsettled. 

“ _A Triumph of Venus_ it’s sometimes called. _An Allegory of Cupid and Venus_ , others,” Sherlock said. “Painted by Agnolo di Cosimo, known as Il Bronzino. 16th century Florentine artist under the patronage of the Medicis. Not a bad gig if you’re freelance. Bronzino was a Mannerist master, and this, indisputably, is his masterpiece. Art historians universally regard his work as some of the most sophisticated of the period. This piece was commissioned as a gift for the King of France, actually.” 

Mary scrunched her nose, mouth upturned. Her eyes flicked over the contorting figures, the odd, twisting lines. “Yeah, think I prefer gift cards.”

“It goes by another name, as well. The most common, really, if less poetic.” 

“Which is?” 

“ _Venus, Cupid, Folly, and Time,_ ” Sherlock recited.

“Succinct.” Mary tipped her head, still at a loss as to what she was doing here.

“Yep.” 

She held her palms up in question. “So what’s the deal with it? Why we here?” 

“What does it mean?” 

Mary looked up in surprise. “Sorry?” 

“What does it mean?” Sherlock repeated.

“I dunno. It’s art. Why you asking me?” 

Sherlock scowled. 

“Seriously. Isn’t there some professor, or, you know, an _actual artist_ you could ask?” 

“I’m not interested in their opinions, I’m interested in yours.” 

“Why?” 

He drew a sharp breath. “Humor me!” 

_What in the hell was going_ on _with him?_

“Fine!” She tipped her gaze up, appealing to some higher power for the patience to, once more, endure the whims of Sherlock Holmes. “Okay. Right. Well, first off, the name’s a clue. You said it was called 'an allegory.'”

“Yes.” 

“So it’s a lesson of sorts. Message wrapped up in some sort of metaphor whathaveyou.” 

He shrugged. “Sure. But isn’t art subjective?” 

She made a face. Sherlock was being...oddly _un_ -Sherlock. “Meaning there’s no one meaning.” 

“Yes.” 

“That no one really knows.” 

“Nope.” He rocked on his heels, then acknowledged, “Well, there are the overt themes: Sexual intent. Incest. Paedophilia.” 

Mary winced a smile, looking back at the canvas, blinking in mild distaste. “Always lovely spending time with you, Sherlock.” 

“But that’s what is immediately clear; what’s visible from the surface. _Obvious_. What we’re after is the deeper meaning.” 

She glanced over. _And why exactly is that?_

Sherlock looked down and nodded to her. “Tell me what you see.” 

Mary turned to face the canvas once more. She tilted her head and shrugged, gesturing to the middle. “Ah, okay. So, our pretty lady here, center. That’s our girl, Venus.” 

He nodded. “Yes.” 

“And next to her, the youngish boy.” 

“Who is?” 

“Cupid?”

“How do you know?” 

She pointed at the cherub. “Got a quiver and wings. Straight off the greeting card.” 

“True. What’s happening?” 

She squinted.“I mean they’re kissing, but–”

“But what–”

Mary frowned. “Well, it’s weird. For a couple of reasons.” The boy was too young. The angle was all wrong. The expressions—put on? “It’s all a bit...not right. He’s in the wrong position and she’s presenting this sweet face, but then has a weapon above his head–?”

“What kind?” 

She looked closer, realizing it was one of Cupid’s own arrows. “Huh.” 

“Odd, don’t you think?” 

“How d’you mean?” 

“Cupid. Famous for his ‘slings and arrows,’ and there she’s wielding it suggestively, threatening. What does that say about Venus? Who, by the way, was Cupid's mother, supposedly." 

“Ugh. So she’s nicked his source of power. Subverted it, actually…” Mary squinted. “She’s also got something in her other hand.” 

“The golden apple, won it in the Judgement of Paris. Eris, Greek goddess of trouble, basically, was a bit put off she wasn’t invited some party or other. Wedding, probably.” His eyes narrowed as he remembered. “Actually, it was, come to think.” 

Mary rolled her eyes. 

“Given her delight in discord, she showed up anyway.” 

“Delighted in discord, did she? Reminds me of someone I know.” 

“Please. Like I’d _willingly_ show up to a party.” 

“Oh, never,” Mary snickered. 

“So, Eris shows up with the golden apple, declaring it _for the fairest_. Being goddesses and fairly prone to confrontation, Venus, Juno and Minerva (or Aphrodite, Hera, Athena, to use the original Greek) enter into a competition for the apple. Zeus decides the mortal Paris will determine who among them is the most beautiful. Of course, all’s fair when you’re a deity, so they each have their go at winning him over. Hera promises to make him king; Athena promises him endless wisdom and cunning in his battles (missed opportunity there, I feel); and Aphrodite—Venus—promised him nothing short of the love of the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Drama! Better than _East Enders_. So he picked love, in the end? Venus for the win?” 

“He picked love, and as promised, Venus delivered him Helen. _That_ Helen, she of the face that launched a thousand ships. So Paris gets love and beauty, and in doing so managed to cause the Trojan War. The apple, here, serves a reminder of that cost, and Venus’ trickery. So what are we to derive from that?” 

Mary turned back to the image of the beautiful goddess, the gleaming weapon in her hand. “Times, love comes at a price." A pair of masks lay at the goddess' feet. “It isn't always honest, either,” she said, feeling the familiar hot-dull ache of pains that had not yet managed, that might never manage, to heal. 

“What else do you see?” 

Mary gave a weary sigh. “Sherlock–”

“Look at the edges. The cherub showering them with petals—the embodiment of childish mirth, Folly. Above him is the old man, an hourglass on his back, and drawing back a changeable blue curtain. 

“Guessing he’s Time, then. There you go then, that’s it. That’s the show.” 

“Yes, but they’re not the only figures, are they? What else do we see?”

"The guy, on the left, opposite Father Time, there." 

"Mmm." 

She frowned. "He's...missing the back of his head." 

"Suggesting?" 

"He's not...all there?" 

"In a manner; the figure is meant, maybe, to represent Oblivion. Things forgotten, or only partially remembered." 

Mary gestured to the flat-eye girl behind beaming Folly. “The little...wait.” As she took it in, really looking at it, she saw the figure for what it was. Wrong. _All_ wrong, and the wrongness sent a chill down her spine. It had the face of a little girl, but the body of a beast and was covered with serpent’s scales. “Some kind of monster?” 

“Chimera, part lion, part serpent. Her hands, there, you see?” 

Mary stepped a bit closer. “They’re backward. Her right hand’s on her left arm, and vice versa. And she’s holding something. A barb-y, stinger type thing.” The serpent’s tail slipped alongside Venus’ legs, and the empty, discarded faces upon the floor. “Guessing those aren’t without significance, either. So she’s— _it’s_ —some sort of amalgamation. That things that aren’t what they seem?”

“Mmm. Duplicity. Fraud. But whose masks are they? The chimera's? Venus's, and therefore a part of love? What are we to take that mean? That emotions are changeable? People?” 

_Oh, Sherlock._

“The screamer there,” he said, spinning into Wild Deduction Mode. “Androgynous; we can't tell if they're male or female, so for the purposes of argument, they're both, either, neither. What we _can_ tell is that the figure is in agony, tearing at their head, or perhaps, something _inside_ their head. Suffering some great pain. But what? What is the source of their torment? There isn’t any apparent physical injury. So emotional. Regret? Jealousy? Rage? Does time reveal our actions to be painful? Given the subject of Venus and Cupid and the accompanying motifs, are we to assume that ultimately love and desire can lead only to anguish?” 

Mary nodded, beginning to understand. “Yes,” she said, gently. 

“Sorry, what?” he asked, taken back by her agreement. 

Mary looked up to him. “Yes, love hurts. Sucker punches your aorta. Leaves you in agony. The fire of a thousand suns etcetera. Everything you just described.” 

He growled in aggravation, throwing his hands to the side. “Then why do people bother?!” 

“Because it’s _love_.” 

He blinked. “I don’t understand. Explain.” 

“I can’t!” 

“What’s the difference?” 

She burst out in an astonished little laugh. “Sherlock! That’s the difference between hearing a love song, and _being in love_. Or, to look at it on the flip side, the difference between being alone and being lonely.” She held her hands out to her sides. “What's up with you? Opera and theater and those novels I’ve seen piling up in your flat. For God’s sake— _poetry_?” She stood toe to toe with him, waiting for the answer. “What exactly is this case about?” 

Sherlock heaved a deep breath. He steepled his fingers below his chin and considered the old master’s work. Mary lifted a brow. He glanced over at her, his face surprisingly open and without guile. “I never said it was a case.”

“Yeah. I’m aware.” She tugged at the elbow of his coat playfully, gentle, patient. His was an unpredictable species and she needed to approach him the right way. “What is it then?” 

“Research.” 

“Research.” She parroted his words back lightly. “And what is it you are researching?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” he huffed but, the edge of his mouth ticked up a little. He was teasing. 

“Oh, if it was anyone else in the world, Sherlock Holmes,” she said in mirth and frustration. She met his level gaze, unflinching.

A roll of the mouth, surprising shyness. He looked away. “Romantic love, Mary. I’m trying to understand it. Love, and the...inherent risks...better. But not just the dramatic or literary representations, but the reality. Thus, opinions. Interpretations. Experience.” A bit of tension left his shoulders. “You could say I’m...developing a theory.” 

She stifled her utter joy and adoration for this idiot, _idiot_ man. She feigned disinterest, inquiring offhand, “And does your theorization lead towards any practical uses?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“Hmm. Maybe involving a tiny, brilliant brunette with a stomach of iron and a heart of gold?” 

Sherlock looked at the floor. “Possibly.” 

“One with bona fides from Cambridge, Barts’ and the Very Loud Jumper collection at TopShop?”

He laughed. 

She pushed on, “One with the mad cat and strong right hook and—”

“Yes, fine, yes! Molly!” He threw his hands up. “Let’s just save ourselves the time and announce it to the whole gallery. I’m sure she would love to learn of a relationship she’s not, you know, actually _in_ at the moment _via Twitter_.” 

She patted his arm. “Yeah yeah. Calm down, bitsy.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Despite the frequency with which you accuse me of acting like a child, I am not, in fact, Elizabeth.” 

Mary scoffed. “Oh, no, you’re definitely not. Make no mistake, if my daughter wants to ask a pretty genius girl out on a date someday—”

“—Or, you know, for lifelong companionship—”

“—she bloody well _will_ have the nerve to do it.” Mary blinked, spinning around, replaying his words back. “Sorry, did you just say—?”

Whatever Sherlock was about to respond was lost in the interrupting announcement. “Gallery closing!” 

They turned. An older gallery attendant in a bowtie called out again. “Five minutes to gallery closing!” 

“Anything else?” Sherlock said, striding toward the entrance. Mary moved quickly after him. 

“Yes! All this stuff you being doing, your so-called _research_ —it’s all grand and lovely, you know. But, Sherlock, none of this is what love _is_.” 

“What is it?” 

How to put define it? What terms would he understand? “You said it yourself, the day John and I got married. It’s not solving the murder; it’s saving the life.” 

“Your point being?”

“Molly _has_. A lot. Every time. When she didn’t need to, and at great cost to herself and her friends, she chose to help you. She’s like John that way. Always wanting to help. Always wanting to fix what’s broken; to mend the break stronger than it was before.” 

Sherlock paused, internalizing her words. As she watched, he worried his mouth, held his hands in front of him, and nodded. He was silent another beat before adding, “Though, not literally.” 

“Sherlock!” she huffed. 

“I’m just saying, she works with dead people. There are limits to her abilities.” 

Mary laughed at him, at this, in utter exasperation, and made for the exit. 

“Know what’s strange?” Sherlock asked. 

“Hmm?” Mary questioned, retrieving her umbrella. 

He held the door for her. “Anderson was the only other person to figure it out.” 

Mary stepped into a rush of damp, cooling air. She shrugged, tickled. “Well. Even a broken clock’s right twice a day, eh?” 

He sighed. “Annoying. Throws off all my estimations about his perception.” His mouth curved in a rare sincere smile. Bending down, he kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”

“Oh, Sherlock. My real live boy.” She smiled proudly. “Now bugger off, Cupid. Ya Venus is waiting.” 

He grimaced in protest. “Abstractions aside, please refrain from applying _really_ ill-suited figurative subjects to my—”

“Oh just get off,” Mary flapped a hand at him. “Literally and figuratively, _get off_ , would you?” 

He scoffed, but chuckled at her ribald humor despite himself. _Oh there is hope for him, isn’t there?_ , she thought. “Hey Sherlock?” Mary called after his retreating figure.

“Yes?” 

“I dunno about what Italian painters or Spanish poets–

“Chilean.”

“Chilean, fine, _Chilean_ poets. I don’t know what kind of lessons you can learn from them about relationships. But you do know what _the_ greatest artist of all the ages says about love, don’t you?” 

He arched a brow, giving her that wary, childlike look that said, _Oh, no, I’ve missed something._ “It...never did run smooth?” he offered, quoting the oft-extolled virtue of the Bard. 

“Nah.” She stepped close, taking hold of his arms and leaning in. 

“Sherlock,” Mary said. 

“Mary,” Sherlock answered, listening.

She summoned all the gravity she could muster, needing every scrap of seriousness in order to do justice to such superlative words of timeless wisdom. “If you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it.” 

Sherlock Holmes tipped his head back dramatically, having been had. 

Mary clapped her hands and cackled madly. 

“Good night, Mary,” he drawled, waving her off as he descended the steps and made his way across Trafalgar as night went falling over lovely, Londontown. Mary bounced on her toes, still laughing to herself, feeling light as a butterfly. 

Oh, the blessed idiot. She really did love him. 

_Good luck, Molly _, she smiled.__

__In spite of his dismissal, she knew. Oh, she _knew_. A ring on it, indeed…_ _

__

__….Mary paused, smirking at the couple beside her at the head table. “ _And, obviously_ , he did.” _ _

__Out across the many tables, soft lights and impeccably dressed waitstaff that had been shepherded into the main hall of the Natural History Museum for this most auspicious, most extraordinary, most _singular_ occasion, the audience (already in stitches, thank you very much) thundered their applause for the Maid (well, Matron) of Honor._ _

__Sherlock stood, fingers unnaturally tight on his champagne flute. He forced a smile and whispered, menacingly, “I _hate_ you.” _ _

__Mary touched his cheek. “Love you too, _bitsy_.”_ _

__He leaned across her and hissed at her husband, “John, our weddings may end up more similar than intended. I sense a murder is about to take place.”_ _

__John raised his glass as the crowd—filled with cheering friends, family, not to mention a very teary contingent at the NYS table—clapped and hollered their joy and approval. “Need I remind you,” John said, beaming, “it was your quick deductions that prevented anyone from actually dying?”_ _

__Sherlock held his unsettling fake smile and growled through his teeth. “This time I’ll show restraint.”_ _

__Molly Hooper-Holmes linked her arm in her new husband’s and laughed the laugh of a woman who, even still, could not quite believe her dreams had come true. “Did you really do all that? Drama and literature and poetry? I had no idea you were such a romantic.”_ _

__Sherlock considered their ringed fingers, linked arms, his smiling new bride. He rolled his eyes, but held his tongue._ _

__“Ah, Mary,” Molly giggled, scrunching her nose. “I’m so glad we’re friends.”_ _

__Mary winked. “Forever, darling.”_ _

__Molly kissed her husband’s shoulder. Sherlock drummed his intertwined fingers against Molly’s, unable to contain his smile._ _

They were, Mary thought, the only two people who could possibly be happier than she was. _Obviously._

**Author's Note:**

> It was Beyoncé. I know. I'm so dumb.


End file.
